


A pet's price

by UMsArchive



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Ancel is in deep and Berenger too, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 06:50:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UMsArchive/pseuds/UMsArchive
Summary: Until that moment, it has never dawned on Ancel that a pet could lose more than patrons and riches.





	A pet's price

**Author's Note:**

> Is basically set in between Pet and my other Berencel story The Messenger. Angst and smut. A worrisome combination at best. It was meant to be just the Nicaise part, but it just evolved from there.

“ _But if he wins_?”

 

Berenger's eyes light up with something he's never seen in him. “Then I’m never letting go of you,” he says, which translates to Ancel, beyond the unreasonableness of Berenger's current desire, as the reasonable 'definitely extend your contract for one more year’, which will have to do for Ancel, if he can get it.

 

He unlaces the jacket quickly, throwing it away with no regard, as such a dreadful piece of clothing warrants for and moves lower to his boots, kneeling before him - Berenger's gaze is on him steadily, measuring - pulling and throwing them aside just as quickly. And he crawls forward, challenging, hands trailing up the back of Berenger's legs and against his hips, licking a line across the shape of Berenger's cock through the laced pants, eyes lifting up to bore into his.

 

That's when Berenger bows forward, clutching Ancel from beneath his armpits and pulling him to his feet. Then he gets hold of his thighs and lifts him up, Ancel wrapping his legs around him just by instinct. (He knew Berenger was fit enough a man to lift someone lean like him up, but did not necessarily think he ever would). Quite bewildered, not sure how to react to such a surprising move, Ancel laughs - throws his head forward laughing, leaning it against Berenger's shoulder, warm and smelling specifically like him - a detail Ancel is surprised himself to identify - and lets himself get carried across the room, and laid gently on Berenger's bed, Berenger above him. There may be a glint in his eyes, or it may be just the candles, enveloping them both in a golden light.

 

Berenger kisses him once, shortly, then sits back - a distance Ancel's body doesn't appreciate - taking off Ancel's boots, then moving forward to work on Ancel's laces, removing the jacket, and then the shirt beneath, one after another, before leaning back in.

  


Ancel tries to see his pattern, to go and give Berenger exactly what he wants; he’s never been quite so decided to get a man to find Ancel could be the source of all of his needs.

  


But Berenger doesn't seem to be decidedly moving towards one pleasure or another, seemingly just prodding at touching and kissing, leaving warm ticklish trails with his hands and lips, tracing all naked and available spaces of his body, advancing along Ancel's neck to his nipples, then to his stomach, hands on Ancel's waist.

 

Ancel _has_ expected Berenger to not be quite too straightforward, but he had imagined him rattling around in a darkened room with just the act of it, not prolonged searching gazes and lips full of want, amplified by the light of candles.

 

He's moving up to capture his lips, hands trailing behind, slowly, up his arms, shoulders, back of his neck, and knotting into his hair, a gentle grip, slightly massaging his scalp. Altogether, it's an overwhelmingly warm itchiness and the lower side of Ancel's body is seeking any kind of friction, and immediately. He follows that need, first and foremost, because it just feels like the most urgent matter, arching his back.

 

Berenger sighs against his mouth at the movement, copying his rhythm, moving in tandem for some minutes, deepening and savouring the kiss slowly.

 

Eventually, Berenger does break the kiss with a shared sigh, his tongue travelling down to Ancel's navel and lower, finally unlacing Ancel's pants and tugging them off.

 

Given this languid rhythm, Ancel is realising he might have come right throughout the oiling process, had he not been still oiled every evening, for appearances, if nothing else. All it will take is Berenger to get some oil on himself, which is the least Ancel can take care of.

 

But Berenger does not reach out for the drawer for the oil stocks. He's placing kisses on the inside of Ancel's thighs, leaving small bite marks behind, still taking it slow, still making it hard for Ancel to hold on and not embarrass himself, tilting his head back, eyes closed, opening them abruptly and looking down at Berenger to find him looking back when he feels his warm breath on his-

 

_Oh_.

  


A brief understanding passes in between, the realization that there is something Ancel had no ready script for. After all, people don't normally pay money for _them_ to suck _you_ off.

 

Berenger lowers his mouth, eyes still on his, taking in the head. Ancel inhales sharply, grasping at the sheets at his sides.

 

Berenger sucks cock in the same straightforward way that he does everything, no tricks, no denial, a steady hand at the base, a steadier mouth at the head. And Ancel does not need or try to hide his reactions and sounds. Berenger appreciates honesty and honesty has never been this damn satisfying.

 

One deep slide and he sees white, head thrown back with a ragged breath, white fists grasping tighter at the sheets. _Damn, Berenger._

 

And because he hears nothing else aside from the shuffling - and feeling - of Berenger already crawling forward again, he realises he must have swallowed just as he reaches for his lips again.

 

Kissing someone with the knowledge of his own taste on their mouth is also new. He doesn't remember being kissed after the act all the same. Sucking someone's dick was normally the culmination of it. Early in his career, that was only when he’d get his money.

 

One of Berenger’s hands is holding the side of his face and by the sounds to his left-

 

“ _Ah_ , allow me,” Ancel sits forward on his knees, snatching the oil, “ _I_ am already oiled,” and, at Berenger amused inquiring look, “I like to be prepared,” _and definitely not talked of more for the lack of oil consumption in this rooms_.

 

He takes off Berenger's shirt - because he is definitely going to get a feel of that chest against his back; he's had enough wide overflowing bellies slapping against his skin to deserve this - and then unlaces the pants, pushing a hand inside tauntingly, across the erect length of it, Berenger's breath getting quicker above him - definitely not Akielon breed, but Ancel is not disappointed, not at all.

 

Berenger efficiently tugs at his pants from behind, shrugging off one leg and then the other, and Ancel uncorks the oil, spreading it with slow inciting slides. And then he stops, corks the oil and throws it across the room, lewdly shuffling backwards on his knees, eyes on Berenger's, inviting, daring Berenger to make a decisive move forward and pin him against the mattress, take him.

 

Berenger does. He stops him in his track, steady hands catching him by the waist, moving lower, down his ass and to his thighs, getting a hold of his ankles and unfolding them forward, Ancel's upper side falling against the pillow. Ancel waits for the overwhelming eye contact to break when Berenger turns him over. Only he doesn't, advancing in between his legs as is.

 

_Oh_. That's something else he’s never done before.

 

***

 

“Take me to the hunt tomorrow,” he mumbled lazily later against Berenger's chest.

 

“You’re going to catch some boar?” Berenger smiles down at him.

 

“No, but neither will you,” Ancel throws him a playful look with a quirk of his eyebrow - Berenger laughs.

 

-but it's also the best occasion to show up at Berenger's side and get the talking started. He's heard talk about Berenger having had assigned a ridiculously big source of money for some misterious business which Ancel can guess has to do with the Prince. He's not above dropping minimal but sure to spread and be interpreted accordingly hints about how that has been the payment to keep him, which would be convenient for the both of them.

 

“Good thing we brought your horse.”

 

“I bet she misses me,” Ancel says sweetly, though, as they climb back to their rooms, after, he realises how much _he_ didn't, his entire body sore from the time in the saddle.

 

After bathing, Berenger massages his whole body down to his feet and toes with scented oils, a blessing to his muscles, and lets him sleep next to him without anything else to it. He offers him a gift in the morning, apparently, for nothing in particular. It’s an earring that intricately climbs up his ear instead of hanging by it, a great arrangement of small different stones in the intricate model - Ancel can't even recognize all of them.

 

In fact, Berenger spends many other evenings every now and then just pampering him without any inclination to ask of anything in return, embracing him as they sleep - Ancel does never return to his own bed - and Ancel is at times perplexed with the situation in which a patron seems to offer more to him than he offers back. Not that he considers sex is the only asset he has to offer. But it's is normally still the best he has to offer.

  


He tries his best to be useful in his own way and more than before. He spends more time eavesdropping and fishing for information than before in matters that specifically concern Berenger. And a lot many things are happening lately indeed.

  


***

 

The Regent has gathered them all for what he is getting to understand is meant to be a cautionary tale. His pet, Nicaise, is sitting with his back straight, paintless, silent. His eyes are red and his mouth in thin line - Ancel thinks he might be putting a great effort in stopping himself from crying; he's a fucking kid, after all. But whatever fight and struggle he might have posed, he has done it before getting here. He looks older like that, probably not for the better in the eyes of the Regent.

 

And he is a _pet_. Just a pet who should not have had any consequences in the fights of real powers. Put out there for execution for everyone to see what happens to anyone who even utters in favour of the Crown Prince. Because what serious deed could a fucking child be even capable of and tried for?

 

Until that moment, it has never dawned on Ancel that a pet could lose more than patrons and riches.

 

The claims are read. The sword is raised. The head rolls. Then it's picked up, put in a bag, handed off with a message for the Prince. Ancel remains impassive looking at the proceedings.

 

The Regent knows by now - everyone does - that Prince Laurent has passed through Varenne, Berenger's prior permission implied. Finding out about the funds - more after the initial ones; Ancel is surprised Berenger would have so many resources - is just a matter of time. And none matters now, as long as the Prince has no official claims hanging above his head. There is no definite sentence on his name. But once he receives it, all involved will.

 

It has never occurred to him that Berenger, too, could lose more than status and lands either.

 

The Regent is talking more after, but Ancel's not listening, only feigning half appropriate interest, half appropriate indifference, and waits long enough to not appear like running out before he tugs on Berenger's arm lightly as a confidential sign to take their leave. Berenger himself bids his time, perhaps for the same reasons, taking his leave with Ancel in an appropriate unhurried manner, while Ancel just feigns increasing boredom in all these state issues.

 

When Ancel tugs him in this direction or that, Berenger follows his lead without questions, leading them in a more secluded part of the coupling garden where, out of view, Ancel finally bends forward towards a bush, spilling all he’s eaten at an earlier - back then carefree - delicious breakfast. And Berenger is quick to hold his hair back, his only reaction. This is the only and most unappealing self he’s ever looked before any man of interest, most definitely. He’d feel embarrassed, weren't it for more pressing worries. But Berenger says nothing about his ungraceful state, all the same.

 

He starts talking as he hands Ancel a handkerchief to wipe his mouth (plain, with his initials on it as only adornment), “I have maintained the public opinion to the general impression that _you_ have been wanting to end the contract that time and I was the one to deny it to you. Be increasingly open about loathing my company in times to come. Be it necessary, you’ll manage a clean cut from me without consequences, _if_ the time comes,” Berenger says in a low voice, but the implication sounds like _when_.

  


His heart is beating with all the warning signs. Of course, Ancel's escape if all goes to hell is absolutely necessary. He agrees wholeheartedly with whatever scheme that saves him his life. And he's terribly annoyed at the ridiculously stupid voice in the back of his head that is not happy with abandoning Berenger. But nothing else. He's not a foolish idealistic like Berenger. Why does _Berenger_ have to be one?

 

He blurts out, “I am used to and very good at pretending the opposite of what my owner makes me feel, so don't you worry for me,” and it's not the first time when something he says to Berenger comes out completely different from what he's intended.

 

Then, “I was never afraid of anything. I don't want to start now.”

 

“And you were always a survivor. You don't have to stop now,” Berenger adds in that kindly impassive way Ancel hates to see and hear right now.

 

‘Why can't _you_ be a survivor?’ he wants to ask, but there are steps approaching and he makes the smarter choice in dealing with the frustration by storming off, schooling his look into one of indifference.

 

“How bad of a fuck you’d have to be for your pet to walk out of the coupling garden alone and looking this fucking bored,” he hears the whispers as he passes them by.

 

“Well, if Berenger’s stubbornness won't let him pass on his appetising pet, the cell or the sword will do,” comes the answer, followed by unanimous laughter.

 

“Who can judge him for trying to finally live well, at least when he's with a foot in the grave?”

  


Ancel gets to their rooms and orders a bath for him, and another to be prepared for Berenger. He dresses up, braids his hair and puts on paint, hearing Berenger coming in and being directed towards the bath waiting for him sometime along the way.

 

When finished, taking a final look in the mirror, he walks there, finding Berenger pouring clean warm water over his head.

 

Berenger looks up at him - approaching slowly, confidently - water trickling down his face. “Are you going out without jewellery?” he observes, looking him up and down.

 

“We’re not going out. Not tonight,” Ancel answers, periodically soaping his hands, rubbing Berenger’s arms, neck, back methodically, circling moves meant for more than cleaning.

 

Berenger leans into the touch, but still comments, “It's not good for us to avoid going out, especially after today.”

 

“It's not like it makes any difference, at this point.”

 

“For you, it might,” Berenger looks sideways at him, his same ever levelled stare.

 

“I thought we were eventually blaming everything on you. Might as well blame this one, too. I’ll complain tomorrow to anyone I meet about what a killjoy you are, how I tried everything in my power to move you from your couch, and how you wouldn't allow for me to go out alone either. And how much I needed it after such a _dire_ day!”

 

Berenger hums pensively, his thoughts obviously somewhere else.

 

Unexpectedly - albeit gently - he catches Ancel's wrist in its movement, staring up at him. “Maybe you should start looking for a new patron.”

  


Ancel glares at him, fastidiously snatching back his hand. “Stop that! I said I’d be careful in public - that's the only compromise I’m making,” he moves away, picking up the water recipient to pour over his back.

 

“It's a compromise for your own good,” Berenger says in a tight voice.

 

“I know my own good,” and his voice is snappy, while his hands remain impassive in their work, picking up a towel to dry off Berenger's hair, “and it is in this room right now.”

 

“Ancel-,” Berenger swirls back.

 

“Stay put,” Ancel chastises, holding him into place, and to his own ears it sounds disgustingly fond.

 

When he's done with that, Berenger sits up and out of the tub, face to the wall on the right, the expanse of his wide back facing Ancel, glistening droplets of water sparkling in the candlelight, and a sudden pulsating urge has him advancing without a thought, taking Berenger by surprise by pushing him further ahead and in full body contact with the wall, his own body following like a magnet, hands tracing the sides, lips tracing his spine, with a want he’s uncharacteristically hesitant to ask for. His body, never on the shy side, speaks his intentions for him, grinding slightly, while his kisses continue up to the base of Berenger's neck, as far as he can reach without tiptoeing.

 

Berenger's head tips back, hand reaching behind to wrap into the side of Ancel's head, gently knotted into his hair, which seems like a wordless approval, and the thought of it has Ancel's mind wheezing.

 

Ancel wants him here and wants him like this, but the height and angle might be an issue and so he gets an even greater idea. He whirls Berenger back with a smirk, towel thrown around his neck, and he tugs him along by it, stopping by the bed to get some oil from the drawer then passing further and into Berenger's study area, excitement bubbling in his veins. When they reach the desk, he turns to Berenger for further confirmation. He looks dazed, but not in a bad way.

 

Ancel can't believe he has the guts to do this; that he’s allowed to do this. Berenger doesn't resist even unconsciously to being bent again the desk, the view into the other rooms before them (and Ancel finds himself ridiculously relieved the desk is clean; that he would've felt bad to ruin any of Berenger's work).

 

Ancel traces the muscles of his back, revelling with a hungry  look in the sight of  Berenger being exposed to him like this, his own body bending  progressively above him, hand up his neck and upper, tugging slightly at his hair, lips sucking and biting into the side of his neck, earning a hissing sound that exploded with heat at the bottom of Ancel's belly. Ancel himself is fully dressed and holding the power, and he realises there's nothing of dominance in this, but of trust.

  


“I want you so badly,” he whispers, feeling like a too deep a confession for louder words.

 

He pulls back with the same lingering movements of his hands, taking a hold of Berenger's hips, trying out the sensation, a bit of anxiety at the surfacing thought that he has no experience giving pleasure this way. He's only done it once, in the rink, but he paid no attention then to the pet at the other end. This is not some pet. It is Berenger. And he knows he ought to take his time.

 

He uncaps the oil with a giddy feeling, coating his fingers. He advances two fingers, but switches last second to one for the moment. An I weak sound leaves Berenger's mouth; an exciting tight knot’s in Ancel’s throat. Berenger is tight, but malleable, as he’s expected, and he adds the second finger with ease, taking liberties with the speed and expansion of his movements, experimenting, adding a third, enjoying Berenger's broken breathing pattern. His own cock is pulsating with ridiculous impatience. He releases Berenger, tugging quickly at his own pant’s laces and oiling himself, placing himself at the entrance with both unease and impatience. He eases himself in slowly, enjoying it, letting out a deep sigh which accompanies Berenger's high pitched whimper. He pauses there, bending forward to place a kiss on Berenger's back.

 

He pulls back slightly, trying out a few tentative thrusts, watching out for Berenger's reaction, and when one causes one of those delectable high pitched sounds, he angles himself for that spot, reaching in between their bodies and the desk for Berenger's cock, the other on his hip, matching the movements in the back to the ones of his hands rather than the other way around, trusting his hand’s expertise better.

 

The sensation can hardly be compared to the time with the other pet. This is too- This is so much better - so overwhelming. His body is so overheated, his breathing ragged. He feels it coming like a lightning hit, nails digging deep into Berenger's hip, just as warm liquid wets his other hand, still moving against Berenger with a new slight tremble to it.

 

He takes a few moments to breath, hot breaths against Berenger's skin, wiping his hand on his own sagged pants, never having cared so little for his clothes. He moves back just little enough to give Berenger the space to turn around and lean against the desk.

  
  


Berenger is just looking at him, eyes switching between his eyes and lips, a cheesy hesitancy in between the act of looking at Ancel and leaning in and closing his eyes to kiss him. There's that shining in his eyes as it always is, as if Ancel- As if Ancel is-

 

Ancel makes that decision for him when the intimacy of looking feels like too much and he feels his face overheating, closing the distance, arms wrapping around Berenger's waist.

 

The sweetness of the kiss is almost painful, with the returning knowledge of their precarious general situation. The uncertainty of their chances. The uncertainty of his own standing as a pet even if the Prince prevails. _I can't lose this. I can't. Don't ever give me up_ , he puts into the kiss, giving it a slight tone of desperation that Berenger will probably not understand the full meaning of. He knows it's unreasonableness, so he doesn't voice it. Everyone moves on from one pet or another, eventually.  It's a taboo subject.

 

“Ever wield a sword?” Ancel asks him, later, in Berenger's - their - bed.

 

“Hm?”

 

“You couldn't possibly be this fit just by working with your horses,” Ancel remarks. It's not just that Berenger doesn't have the round construction of an easy life like most of the others, but his arms are also well muscled, when the others’ seem just thick shaped in accordance with the heavy proportions of the rest of their body.

 

A pause. “I used to.” Used to sounds strangely full of meaning.

 

“When did you stop?”

 

“After Marlas.”

 

“You were at Marlas?” Ancel's eyes widen. Then, frowning,”You have no battle scars.” Probably none that lasted, anyway. But a higher positioned noble would probably not be sent into the hell of the battlefield.

 

“Yes, I was quite good,” is an answer Ancel did not expect. Neither the following partly darkened expression or the following, “I was a bit further off when they called retreat, announcing the Prince has fallen. Turned just in time to see Damianos’ back departing.”

 

Ancel takes not of Berenger's particular graveness as he speaks of this. And he thinks of the nobles at court and their probable ages, of the grand descriptions of the late Prince’s character (usually as a way to criticize the current Crown Prince) and in a moment of clarity, he thinks, _He probably wouldn't have spent his time at court with lowlifes like Guion’s sons. He’d have a different kind of friend._

 

He wants to ask, 'Is his death what made you stop? Is it why you don't like returning here?’ but it feels too invasive, so instead he asks, “Is this why you are helping Prince Laurent?”

 

Berenger isn't taken aback by the question, which is in itself an admission. “Partly,” he says.

 

And it doesn't make Ancel feel any better about this. But he does understand it more.


End file.
